Empty the BAG to find the CUP

Originally posted on Salvoes in Faith:

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We come before him with an empty paper bag and ask Him to fill it up, He does…every single time. But it’s a mixed bag, though it’s all good there are some things included that we don’t want to see, much less deal with…rummage through the bag for the “good stuff” until all that’s left is that “other” stuff. The stuff we store away and deem not to be useful by our estimation. Until we make use of everything in that bag…find the hidden “good” in it nothing else will be added. This is mysterious, this is secret, this is the jigsaw puzzle we get so excited over. Exhilaration, glory bumps beyond anything we’ve ever felt before, when we stay the course. A discernible, recognizable, image begins to take form. We can begin to see that we have been well equipped, His Grace is sufficient. But we want to know…

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Padre

justhappeneduponthis:

The exchanges such as these in comments are precious and so revealing and honest.
Erstwhile free thinker, this one! Alas, too few and too far between.
a,g.

Also, please visit Doug’s excellent link as follows: http://justhappeneduponthis.wordpress.com/2012/06/10/wanted-under-shepherds/

Originally posted on justhappeneduponthis:

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A good duck hunter sends the dogs into the tall marshes to flush out what is hidden therein and therefore an elusive target becomes airborne out in the open and easily addressed or dispatched and the advantage turns in favor of the keen observer (with a little help).
Happy flushing out brother, but keep in mind shooting at clay discs and souls are two very different nino’s.
But I like the disclosures that come from the engagement.
This is something I’ve been trained to understand very well and not because I ever particularly desired to but I accept it graciously nonetheless.
Capisce’ Paisano?

Happy hunting…er…ahem (fishing).

pearlspearls2

My prayers are with you.
Antonio Gomez

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Happy Stalls

Originally posted on justhappeneduponthis:

Jan had been coming every weekend for over fifty  years. He and Maria, emigrants from troubled Hungary in ’57.

A job for both of them in piece work at the rubber boot factory. And then the happy sales efforts in the meat stall at Saturday’s Farmers’ Market. Old man Fleischman had been particularly gracious and had soon promoted the two to managers’ position. He liked these people, their smiles, courage, work ethic. And they knew how to get shoppers enthused about sausage, chops and ribs! Those were the days of the outdoor market beside the old City Hall. Mennonites, buggies, old Ford trucks, laden with produce, cheeses, syrup, meat specialties, tantalizing baked goods. Four A. M. set-up, weather notwithstanding. Street musicians. Artisans.

Then came the dismantling of the City Hall, and the new Mall and spanking clean indoor market. Fleischman had retired and died two years later of heart complications…

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Do You Have Anything Christmassy to share?-Here ya’ go!

Originally posted on Salvoes in Faith:

heartt

(Lord knows I’ve tried to hold this back)

We didn’t have chimney’s

Where we lived

It wasn’t safe for Santa

Without a police escort

In my neighborhood

Any inklings of fairy tales

Just as soon covered with soot like everything else once momentarily white

Though making a snowman out of dirty snow

Was okay to pass the time

We got our kicks from throwing snowballs with chunks of ice in them

At passing buses

Got chased by angry motorists

Yelling cusses’

While we taunted laughed and ran

Invincible unruly street urchins we were

This was no place of innocence

The manger scene in front of St. Gertrude’s across the street

Littered with trash tossed out of passing cars mindlessly

Baby Jesus wore a discarded happy meal bag with a grinning Mayor McCheese

We didn’t know

We were just ignorant kids unsupervised

No one was teaching what was really…

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Good Fortune

They would gather at the shiny blue bus parked outside the coffee shop and headed for Niagara Falls and the casinos.

The young man whose cousin knew a guy who needed a good warehouse forklift operator.

The divorced driver who had been sober these past eleven years, and who desperately needed to bring others some happiness.

The two young women whose uncommon approach to amusement would help the one cope with a devastating marriage break-up.

The man who stole purses in the midst of the excitement and clatter. He knew that he had the best bet in the house.

The non-custodial father who wanted to see Marineland and the Falls with his teenager before a new job took him out of province for several months.

The spinster who looked forward to a delicious meal and the chance of casual anonymous conversation.

The two couples of seniors who simply needed to feel young again ‘midst the bright lights and music. Years back one of them had had a big win. They held on to the hint of escape from fixed income.

The on-and-off city worker who used the bus ride to read his adventure novels and used his crack numbers system to work the slots.

The sleep-deprived grad student who had stood before with the crowds at the railing watching the cascading turquoise and feeling within her that strange compulsion to jump.

The young man on workers’ compensation with a bad leg and “bored out of his tree”.

A forties-something woman whose folly with department store credit cards had led to another addiction.

The well-dressed man with the comb-over who had heard that many of the waitresses were fun-loving. He held a one-way ticket.

A small-time bar musician and singer with tickets to see a couple of the Big Names.

The retired public school teacher who liked to be reminded of her many class trips. She had known love, and that richly. A Father had died with lung cancer. A young Husband had been lost in police service. She knew that she needed no other good fortune.

It was hoped to be a good and safe trip. Hoped.

There were Christmas decorations inside the bus.

The rain had started. Roads looked slick. But the forecast bet on clearing up by early afternoon.

Failing?

She has this moment

And greets it with a smile

Though fast will be the fading

Of Memory in a while.

She asks of friends

And wonders how they are

Long gone Mom, the answer

To her not quite that far.

She has her strength

And moves through days

As if a younger girl.

The room, the plants and photos

The limits of her world.

But still that smile

And other quaint congenial stuff

Show to the Home

A ruse that thoughts are clear enough.

“Where does he live

And what’s his job

And has he found a girl?”

Such facts of grandson

Oft’ repeated in a swirl.

And “Oh you’re here!

I didn’t know the plan.”

Though thrice we spelled it out

That she might understand.

“And who’s that man

Young Lauren gets to see

…You like him, don’t you Son?”

And I say yes eternally.

The failing hurts

As we recall her mastery

Of friends and fun and function

From the past we see.

Just get her talking of the school

Old neighbourhood

Danish Aunts

Or nursing, golfing days.

And Memory seems another sort

And rises, registers and gladly plays.

So is it all so sad

Her fleeting map?

As she still revels at a country drive

And laughs and loves the moment

My Mom, so very much alive.

D. B.

http://adopttheworld.blogspot.ca/2010/03/danish-side.html